


Nothing New, We Know You're Acting For A Living

by UniversallyEcho



Series: season 2 of elite but make it wlw [2]
Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Basically a rewrite of season 2 but wlw, Enemies to Lovers, Enemies with benefits?, F/F, and also without abandoning Cayetana and Rebeka's character development, as soon as it doesn't benefit the plot, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniversallyEcho/pseuds/UniversallyEcho
Summary: She has her dark hair messily pulled into a ponytail, wisps falling to frame the slant of her jawline, and the effortlessly tousled look matches pretty faithfully with the rest of her. So when she does finally look at Cayetana, the intensity of her green eyes harshly emphasized with heavy handed liner and sharp eyebrows, Cayetana finds herself nervously tugging at the hem of her own shirt and urging every muscle in her body to not immediately turn away.She swallows nervously, forces herself to straighten her posture despite the painful silence, and musters up her cherriest smile. Okay, so Cayetana kinda expected her first friend at this school to look a little more like a preppy old-money heir than an outdated grunge revolutionist, but this is fine, she can work with this.Or; there’s a very thin line between love and hate and Cayetana has no idea what side she falls on when it comes to Rebeka.
Relationships: Rebeca "Rebe" de Bormujo Ávalos/Cayetana Grajera Pando
Series: season 2 of elite but make it wlw [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003338
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22





	Nothing New, We Know You're Acting For A Living

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song "All the Gold" by Cornelia Jakobs which I think embodies Cayetana's character completely.

****i.****

Cayetana is thirty minutes early to the orientation day at Las Encinas. 

Apparently even new faculty is expected to attend the morning of, so she gets her mom to drop her off before her shift at the furthest curb in the long driveway leading up to the school. 

Cayetana takes out a vintage compact mirror she bargained for at a garage sale and sits down on the cement ledge, with her ankles crossed and her knees pointed to the side and tries, a little too hard probably, to come off as aloof and casual. 

She spends the first seven minutes messing with her hair, trying to get it to sit as lavishly as it did on the model in the magazine cover she has pinned to her dreamboard, the next five dabbing on a coat of her awful tasting knock off YSL lip gloss and then another five lightly dusting a layer of powder blush on the apples of her cheeks. It’s only by the time that she’s done obsessively reapplying every step of her makeup routine, that the beginnings of a crowd start gathering around the school. 

Which is terrible timing really, because it means that she’s run out of concerns to busy herself with and is left alone with the bitter pill that she actually has no idea how to approach any of the people here. 

Not when everyone has already formed their cliques based on the joint summer vacations their families took the year prior. Not when she hears keywords like ‘private island’ and ‘marble infinity bathtub’ circulating faster than she has time to think up an idyllic vacation of her own.

Cayetana spent her summer alternating between sitting on the cold metal benches of the hospital cafeteria and working at the drive through of the fast food joint by her house. 

It took two whole bottles of drugstore shampoo and fifteen showers to get rid of the seemingly permanent stench of grease and cigarette butts absorbed in her hair and even then she had to cut it short out of sheer paranoia that a hair flip would nauseate everyone around her. She can tell just by glancing at the back of the heads of the girls chattering in front of her, with their invisible split ends and chic blunt bangs, that the people here had very different experiences than her rusted metal kitchen scissors and smudged mirror and the flickering of a single broken lightbulb in her bathroom. 

Cayetana nervously, almost subconsciously, runs her fingers through the end strands of her hair. 

She takes a deep breath and steels herself for the wave of insecurity that will inevitably crash against her ribcage when she pushes through the swarms of moving bodies. 

_You can do this. You’ve prepared for this. No more stalling._

But when she moves her right foot in front of her left, she finds that she isn’t moving at all. Well, she is _moving_ , just not in the right direction. Instead she’s crashing forward, dropping, suddenly and startlingly and so fast that she doesn’t even have the common sense to move her arms in front of her to break the fall. 

“Fuck! Of course this school spends more money on the stupid welcome banners than on the cracks in the shitty sidewalk.”

It takes Cayetana longer than it should to realize that the abrasive tone of fed up frustration isn’t actually coming out of her mouth but instead from the girl that bumped into her. It’s not that Cayetana’s particularly outspoken either, she just didn’t expect such loud statements of vulgarity here. Where the girls are wearing heels with genuine red bottoms, not ones that still reek of the chemically nail polish that was used to paint them that colour, and they hold purses daintily in the crease of their elbow instead of lugging around backpacks filled with uselessly heavy textbooks. 

Cayetana can barely bring herself to utter a word louder than a whisper, in worry that she’ll break this delicate air of class and sophistication, let alone curse so loudly, so explosively. 

The girl in question still hasn’t glanced over to Cayetana once, seemingly too busy stretching out her leg and noting the damage caused to her fishnet stockings from the scrape of her knee along the ground. Her uniform blazer has fallen off one shoulder revealing a cropped white blouse that’s both distinctly designer _and_ against the dress code and the burgundy shorts matching in their skimpy length don’t do much to help her case. She has her dark hair messily pulled into a ponytail, wisps falling to frame the slant of her jawline, and the effortlessly tousled look matches pretty faithfully with the rest of her. So when she does finally look at Cayetana, the intensity of her green eyes harshly emphasized with heavy handed liner and sharp eyebrows, Cayetana finds herself nervously tugging at the hem of her own shirt and urging every muscle in her body to not immediately turn away.

She swallows nervously, forces herself to straighten her posture despite the painful silence, and musters up her cherriest smile. Okay, so Cayetana kinda expected her first friend at this school to look a little more like a preppy old-money heir than an outdated grunge revolutionist, but this is fine, she can work with this. 

“Hi, I’m Cayetana!” She states cheerfully, jutting out her arm for an introductory handshake and then seconds later retracting it when all she’s met with is a raised eyebrow. She clears her throat a little and then hesitates before continuing, “Don’t worry about the bumping into me thing, it happens to the best of us. Gravity’s such a pain sometimes.”

The nervous bubble of laughter that spills from her quickly dissipates when the other girl looks her up and down and pauses for just an instant too long on her scuffed up, much-too-old-to-still-be-glossy, pumps. She frowns at Cayetana disapprovingly and _that_ , that little stamp of judgement is enough to have Cayetana rearing back. 

The girl either doesn’t notice Cayetana’s sudden jolt to stand up and get away as quickly as possible or just simply decides she doesn’t care, as she instead scowls a little and reiterates mockingly, “Right, gravity.”

Cayetana rolls her eyes and brushes off the non-existent dust from her pleated skirt more aggressively than is probably reasonable because of course, of course the person who bumps into her is one of _those_ girls. 

Cayetana isn’t as sensitive as she knows she often comes off as. Her bubblegum pink tinted lips and soft features are all deceptively inaccurate to her reality of a less than perfect upbringing and more harsh criticism than is ever deserved of a child. She’s worked in the service industry for most of her teenage years, _that_ if nothing else should be evidence of her resilience. 

So, it’s not even that she’s particularly offended at this girl's narrowed glare or hasty presumptions. It’s just that, Cayetana anticipated most of the sneering done here to be more diplomatic. More snickering behind her back or using cleverly backhanded compliments. Not judgements made with such a blatant lack of tack and a complete disregard for false appearances. All of which reminds her eerily of an accumulation of every nightmare she ever had back when she was in middle school and worried on end about the girls that traveled in packs to the bathroom to gossip and whether or not they were gossiping about her.

And, no, that isn’t technically the day Cayetana actually argues back with the girl, but it _is_ the day she jots down a note to self that the classmate with the tacky gold jewelry and obnoxious red fanny pack is nothing but trouble.

And listen, Cayetana is wrong about a lot of things. It could be debated that in her entire lifetime, she’s been wrong more times than she has been right.

This is _not_ one of those times. 

She is absolutely dead on the nose about this one.

**ii.**

When Cayetana was little, when she was much too young to understand that ‘mother-daughter bonding time’ was actually just her mother’s way of avoiding aftercare program fees, Cayetana used to love sitting in at her mom’s work. 

Most days she would stay blissfully naive to reality. The plastic stool behind the white cashier counter swiveled and she would spend hours and hours spinning around and gazing up at the crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the high-end retail store while her mom ran around providing to the every whim of her customers.

Some days though, the dizzying nausea from the rainbow colored light show flashing in front of her eyes weren’t quite enough to keep her attention. On those days she would find herself watching keenly at the display of masterful deception playing out in retrograding cycles. The false compliments of reassurance that, ‘no, those jeans don’t make your hips look wide’ and ‘yes, that colour absolutely matches your eyes’. The way her mom would complain on the bus ride home that today was grueling and that the woman with the blonde bob was such a bitch and Cayetana would want to ask why her mom offered her phone number to the woman in the first place, if only she didn’t already know it would just anger her further. 

One day in particular rings a memory louder than the others.

A fuzzy film pieced together with scenes of an angry client demanding her mother order a pair of shoes that weren’t yet available in the country, a volatile argument about the capabilities of an employee, the demand for higher authority. And the entire interaction was filled with ludicrous claims of an entitled ex-somebody and even Cayetana, who was still too young to walk home from school and who every once in a while needed a reminder of what the little ticks of an analog clock stood for, recognized the absurdity and self-righteousness of the situation. Her mom was completely in the right. And yet it wasn’t the customer being called the next morning and being told that her only source of income for their three-member family was cut off.

And that got Cayetana thinking. Which is, more often than not, a very dangerous notion. She became a little obsessed with the concept of endless desire, of delusional context and self-serving greed. Of things only money can buy.

She remembers her mom trying to give a life lesson about entitlement following the situation. Something about the importance of substance in one's character and _not_ material items, painting some vague metaphor that was meant to leave Caye with a new awakening. It was all boring enough that it probably came straight off the back of a parenting book her mom was too busy to read further than the synopsis of, but Cayetana stopped listening after the fourth sigh her mother exhaled so she can’t really be sure. 

It turns out her active listening wasn’t actually imperative. She has many more opportunities to ignore her mother’s words when she’s scolded—extensively only once but then vaguely and exhaustedly again and again throughout her adolescence—for possessing the absolute _wrong_ kind of survival instincts. 

It also turns out Lu has the same kind of shoes the woman was asking for. Size 7 woven suede Jimmy Choo pumps. A different colour of course, one that’s most appropriate of the current season and respectfully toes the line of avante-garde while staying within the bounds of current trends, but the foreshadowed meaning is the same. 

So, really, none of this is her fault. Cayetana simply never stood a chance.

**iii.**

It might be Lu that initially sparks the disdain between Cayetana and the girl who bumped into her that first day, _Rebeka, that’s her name_ , but she’s pretty sure not even Lu could have predicted the spiraling cycle of insults and snapbacks that ignites because of it. 

Lu is overbearingly protective over people she considers as one of her and apparently a single evening spent in the mansion Cayetana pretends is her own is enough to give her a coveted spot in that role. Only, Rebeka and Cayetana’s tension lasts miles past the moment Rebeka and Lu go back to pretending the other’s presence doesn’t exist. Which is definitely more bad than it is good but Cayetana can’t help but feel a little relieved anyway. 

Rebeka is hard to ignore, Cayetana is glad she has an excuse to not have to. 

Rebeka is fucking everywhere, all the time, and she seems to pop up with the sole vengeance to inconvenience Cayetana.

She snickers meanly when Cayetana refuses out of principle to clap the chalkboard erasers—because Cayetana spent five hours hand sewing the embroidered flowers on her uniform blazer and chalkboard dust is _not_ what Caye meant when she said her outfit was still missing something and, she already ruined one uniform because her stupid app didn’t have the foresight to predict rain and chunky heels aren’t exactly stable when walking through muddy puddles, so, just, no, her right hand is still _numb_ , okay, she’s _not_ doing that again—and she rolls her eyes when Cayetana takes twenty minutes writing out the title of their poster assignment because presentation is just as important as content and she sighs so much when Caye is around that Cayetana becomes genuinely concerned about her lung health. 

Rebeka makes a hundred and one snooty comments under her breath about how much of a spoiled brat Cayetana is, about how Cayetana probably spent more time on her hair than on the essay that she hands in exactly one minute before the deadline (which is true, yes, but that is _not_ the point), about how many times Cayetana must have bleached her hair to get that exact shade of ‘burnt turmeric’, and she never fucking moves even when she sees Cayetana walking straight toward her path, _especially_ when she sees Cayetana walking straight toward her path, which means that their arms have brushed and their hips have clinked together and their hands have touched now infinitely more times than Cayetana ever expected them to. 

She’s a bitch, basically. 

So when Cayetana watches helplessly as Rebeka corners her at the halloween party thrown by Rebeka’s mother, the same mother that often comes downstairs when Caye is cleaning the windows to tell her she’s missed a spot on the frame, she can’t say she’s completely surprised at Rebeka’s awareness about her lie. She is, however, intrigued. 

Especially when Rebeka hypocritically gives her a patronizing, never-ending speech about facades and the power of one’s true identity while wearing a princess costume that Cayetana knows for a fact she’s wearing to impress a boy. 

The dress is a saturated yellow, the torso completely covered in glitter sequins, and the figure-hugging cut is much more flattering than the mismatch of too tight tops and too big jackets that Rebeka’s normally lives in. Cayetana may zone out a little when she first gets a good look at it, away from the fluorescent neon lights. 

People really need to stop wearing designer clothes if they want her to pay attention when they speak. And also maybe tone it down with the cleavage. That can’t be helping her short attention span.

**iv.**

Cayetana doesn’t kiss Rebeka at the halloween party. She _does_ kiss Polo. 

She doesn’t let her mind wander to how it would feel if she was holding a fistful of the coarse material of beaded fabric instead of the smooth, pressed, white button up.

Not when she’s the one to lean forward and press her lips comfortingly against his. Not when his eyes first flutter in surprise and he moves up a hand to gently lay pressed against the back of her head, a steady pressure against her skin, as he returns her kiss. Not when Cayetana had convinced herself the entirety of her childhood that this would be a monumental moment, that the moment she kissed a boy who didn’t ‘forget’ his wallet every time they went out for dinner, and didn’t brush off her concern for his building pile of speeding tickets, and didn’t bargain his way out of every monetary transaction, she would finally feel everything shift into place beneath her feet. 

Like the grains of sand that had been sifting through an hourglass to shape the future have finally reduced to a final singular grain, dropping softly against the top of the pile as Cayetana’s lips touch the chapped surface of Polos’, because it seems like she’s finally getting everything she’s ever wanted, and Polo, Polo pulls back. He tells her to text him tomorrow and the only reason she knows it’s fake pleasantry is because the small forced smile plastered on his face is the same one she’s sure is on her own. Cayetana can’t bring herself to argue it.

She doesn’t message Polo that night, despite finally having his number after days of chasing after the boy. It becomes incessantly harder to ignore the daze of resignation that maybe, she doesn’t want a prince charming afterall. 

**v.**

“You know, you’re not really what I expected”

Cayetana rolls her eyes at what must be the weakest attempt yet from Rebeka to start up conversation. It’s the following Saturday after the Halloween party and her family’s cleaning services had been hired to restore the disaster that comes from a crowded gathering of over a hundred drunk teenagers. 

Except her mom had to take her grandfather to another checkup appointment and Rebeka’s mom rushed out the door as soon as Cayetana walked in to ‘quickly settle some business conflicts’.

Cayetana is fairly certain she shouldn’t ask. So that leaves her and Rebeka, who is for some reason on house arrest, stuck in this modern lush prison together.

Cayetana responds a beat late, “Aren’t there like, twenty different rooms you could go entertain yourself in?” 

“Only thirteen sadly, the house looks a lot more spacious than it is. Besides, none of them have you.” 

Cayetana doesn’t even bother to cast a look her way at that last bit, she’s already memorized the slight hitch Rebeka’s voice gets when she’s teasing. She knows none of it has any real meaning and yet she can’t stop her heartbeat from speeding up just the slightest at those words anyway. 

_‘It’s the chemical fumes of this windex cleaner’_ Cayetana reassures herself. 

Cayetana replies flatly, “While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m being paid to clean windows, not to entertain you.” 

There should be a surcharge for making nice with the daughter, Cayetana is absolutely not being paid enough for this.

Rebeka persists, “Oh come on, you’re not even a little curious about my first impression of you?” Cayetana imitates a glare she remembers Lu using on the freshmans who bumped into her last week, and hopes it comes off even an ounce as menacing. 

“I’m pretty sure I could guess.” Call her petty but Cayetana refuses to let go of the incident with her scuffed up shoes even if Rebeka didn’t explicitly insult her. No one glances at Cayetana for longer than a millisecond if it’s not to judge her, she knows this from experience. Besides, she can't quite promise not to walk out and lose any potential in being hired once more if she has to listen to Rebeka gloat her way through their awful introduction.

“Fine,” Rebeka huffs, turning to walk away from Caye. _Finally_. Her voice echoes from the kitchen when she adds, “You're so boring.” 

Cayetana is unfazed by the comment, simply happy to return to finishing her task and getting the hell out of there, but her victory is short-lived. She quickly finds out that Rebeka is one of those obnoxious people who can’t go five minutes with silence. Which, yeah, Cayetana gets, she also becomes increasingly frantic when conversation hits a lull but that’s only ever with people she actually _wants_ to impress so she has no idea what Rebeka’s deal is.

"Do you want a drink?” Rebeka asks, standing in the empty space that would act as an entryway between the different rooms if not for the open concept of the house.

“We drank yesterday,” Cayetana dismisses, she’s still a little hungover if she’s being honest, she’s not used to the expensive stuff and the anxious way she was going through multiple drinks all night probably didn’t help. 

“I meant, like water or soda or something.”

Cayetana shakes her head, “I’m not technically allowed, it’s against contract.” 

Rebeka sighs so loudly that Cayetana doesn’t have a choice but to finally pause and give her full attention the other girl’s way, questioning gaze and crossed arms and all. Rebeka simply raises a brow and inquires, “And that’s stopped you before?” 

Cayetana knows that Rebeka doesn’t have any idea of her past deeds, that the most logical explanation for this much-too-accurate guess is that such rule breaking is to be expected of any adolescent left alone in someone else's house. And yet she can’t help but to think of the red stained dress she has hidden in the back of her closet. Which then reminds her that the only reason she’s not seriously in trouble from her temporary lapse of judgement is because Rebeka convinced her mom to raise the pay on today’s appointment as an apology for ‘accidentally’ spilling that drink on her. 

So, fine, maybe Cayetana can tone down the cattiness, at least for today. 

She leaves behind the outerwear of her uniform on the floor and lets Rebeka lead them to the counter in front of her fridge, hopping up on its surface to close the distance between their heights and feign some normality in the situation, while watching curiously as Rebeka takes out two drinks. 

The gasp that leaves her mouth is involuntarily, her less than ladylike composure as she swipes the pink filled glass bottle from Rebeka’s left hand even more so. Cayetana traces a finger over the retro label of the strawberry cream soda, twists off the metal cap and smiles at the popping sound it emits before bubbling with carbonated foam. She didn’t know they even made this anymore. 

“I used to get these on my way home from school when I was younger,” She says at Rebeka’s amused expression. ‘ _Before my grandfather got sick and my dad left us and we moved to a cheaper apartment, away from the luxuries of a home inside the city with trendy shops that sold liquids other than cold medicine and off-brand cola,’_ She almost adds.

Rebeka, oblivious to the near blunder that Cayetana is already beating herself over, tilts her head and replies, “Me too, my dad would buy me one every Friday. It took forever to find online and it was criminally overpriced but I figured it’s worth not having to drive down to find a store that sells them.” 

Rebeka shrugs, a smile peeking out from the corners of her mouth and Cayetana returns it before she has a chance to remind herself not to.

It's a little jarring, to know they have more in common than Cayetana will ever let herself admit. 

It’s only in the new acute buzz of awareness that Cayetana realizes Rebeka still has a hand gripped on her thigh, from when Cayetana eagerly leaned forward earlier and Rebeka steadied her with a hold firm enough so she wouldn’t topple off the counter.

Rebeka must catch the way Caye’s gaze flickers from the spot on her thigh to her face because she swiftly snatches back her hand. Rebeka clears her throat and busies herself with opening and taking a swig of her own drink— _orange creamsicle, by far the inferior flavour_.

Rebeka eyes her, eyebrows furrowed and with a narrowed stare, “I forget sometimes that you’re not actually from here. You’ve done a very impressive job of convincing everyone you're a snob by blood.”

“It’s not very hard, most people here don’t take an interest in anyone outside their social circle.”

Rebeka shakes her head, “Still, you managed to trap Lu with your lie, that takes skill.”

Cayetana shifts, uncomfortable and wary of the direction the conversation is taking but too disoriented by whatever point Rebeka seems dead set on making to interrupt it. 

Rebeka wrongfully takes her silence as permission to continue, “Now, remind me again, why exactly are you lying to everyone about who you are?”

This again? Cayetana rolls her eyes, “Right, because I’m sure everyone would love to befriend the daughter whose admittance to the school is thanks to her mother’s new job as the janitor. Don’t even pretend like anyone worth talking to would approach me if I didn’t trick them into it.” 

She knows how that must sound, knows how pathetic she’s made herself look with all that insecurity seeping into her reasoning. Rebeka doesn’t look like she’s pitying her though, if anything she looks more peeved than she was before. 

Rebeka scoffs, “You’re not just lying to other people, you're deceiving yourself,” Cayetana can’t even escape the disapproval this time, she’s trapped between the cold marble beneath her and the dangerously close warmth from Rebeka’s arms on each side of her body, virtually pinning her in place. “Going around, talking about places you’ve never been to and convincing yourself you're this person with all these memories you never experienced?”

Cayetana can feel an unnerving wave of exasperation run right through her. She really doesn’t fucking get these people. It’s remarkable, honestly, how every person can feel so superior in their judgement on others and simultaneously be so tone deaf to their own faults.

She’s sick of it. Sick of people giving her grief for actively pursuing what she wants. Okay, so maybe her methods are a little unconventional. Those make for the best kind of stories anyway.

“Don’t you think denying yourself is worse?” She bursts out. 

Rebeka gives her a questioning look and it’s the incentive Cayetana didn’t realize she was waiting for to continue, “You act like you’re so morally sound when in reality, you’re just too scared to actually do anything about your life.”

Her words are maybe a little harsh, if the way Rebeka flinches is anything to go by, and she half expects for Rebeka to kick her out right then and there. She doesn’t. Even with her jaw set tensely and the combative nature of her posture, she doesn’t retreat, doesn’t take a step back. Instead she leans forward until they’re close enough that Cayetana can feel each huff of an exhale that escapes Rebeka’s orange tinted lips.

It’s unexpected enough that Cayetana tells herself she’s not just wasting her breath when she presses, “Samuel? The party, your dress? You didn’t even last five minutes in that costume and for weeks you’ve been sulking about the boy. Have you even told him how you feel?”

Rebeka’s silence is more than enough of an answer.

“I thought so. Don’t blame me for not wanting to live on the peripheries of my own life, like you do.”

Cayetana holds her breath as Rebeka’s gaze flickers with dismay and maybe even a little intrigue before narrowing sharp with irritation.

There’s a noticeable shift in her gravelly tone when she argues, “Just because you’re a pathological liar doesn’t mean the rest of us-”

Cayetana scoffs and interrupts loudly, “It’s not pathological, it’s purposeful”

Rebeka’s resounding sigh is, in Cayetana’s opinion, offensive and unnecessary and Cayetana notices the way she’s biting on her lower lip to refrain from what Cayetana can only assume is a mean-spirited snicker which only adds fuel to the fire. 

Before she can get too indignant though, Rebeka tilts her head so her next words fall right beneath Cayetana’s ear as she warns, “All I’m saying is that this is bound to crash and burn and when it does I’m not going to wait for it to blow over before I say I told you so.” 

All of Cayetana’s senses are overwhelmed with the distinct feeling of Rebeka encompassing her. Hot breaths against the junction of her neck, sharp nails faintly digging into the leg still under Rebeka’s hold, the air around them hot and electric with the inviting blend of her cheap floral perfume, bordering between a rural meadow and mildew encrusted candies exclusively given out by grandmothers, and the whift of artificial fruit lingering from the open bottles left half empty and discarded behind them. It’s completely dizzying and doing terrible things to the rational part of her brain.

Her breathing falters and she hopes the slight stumble isn’t noticeable when she taunts, “I sure hope you think of something more interesting, ‘I told you so’ seems very anticlimactic.”

“I’ll just have to get creative then.”

In the interest of full disclosure, Cayetana would just like to say that maybe she was a little bit wrong about the whole Rebeka not taking control of her life thing. The way she spreads Cayetana’s legs to fit herself in the space between them, then guides one hand on Caye’s cheek to pull her into an opened mouth kiss is compelling evidence of her initiative. The way Rebeka draws back, their lips separating with a slow, slick drag, her eyes stormy and pupils dilated, she looks anything but unsure.

And here’s the thing, here’s the _problem_ , Cayetana doesn’t do things halfway. It’s not her style. She prefers over the top, all or nothing, high risk. So when Rebeka murmurs against the cushion of Caye’s bottom lip, “I wonder how your prince charming would react to this” referring to either Cayetana’s facade or the kiss they just shared she can’t tell but figures the answer can’t be that important. Not when she wraps her hand against the curl of Rebeka’s ponytail and pulls her in again, eclipsing any rational judgement she might’ve had at the situation.

They move fast but unhurried. They don’t rush their actions, frantic like they’re worried about getting caught doing something wrong. Cayetana lets Rebeka tilt her hips upward against her, her ankles crossed behind Rebeka’s waist, pushing herself closer. She plays with the chunky gold jewelry hanging over Rebeka’s chest as they make out and Rebeka traces languid circles on the bare sliver of skin where Caye’s top and jeans meet until she gets impatient and helps Rebeka undress her. 

When Rebeka finally touches her where she needs it most, Cayetana can feel everything around her go quiet and soft. Like the entire world has condensed to only Rebeka and the way she bites at Cayetana’s collarbone or reciprocates Caye’s hiccuping gasps with low moans and digging nails in her shoulders. It’s embarrassing how quickly Cayetana succumbs to pleasure, tense little jerks each time Rebeka presses against her, her body shuddering without permission and her breath coming out in poorly timed gasps. 

She’s just beginning to lose herself in the sensation of it all when she reaches out an arm to push herself into a more comfortable position and instead accidentally pushes the abandoned sodas off the counter. She watches helplessly as they fall and shatter into fragments of glass spread in every direction on top of the sticky coloured liquid. 

Rebeka grins at Cayetana’s groan of dismay and reassures her, “It’s fine,” Rebeka smoothes a hand over the curve of her ass and squeezes, “Someone gets payed to clean the floor.”

Cayetana whines, dropping her forehead in the crux of Rebeka’s neck and displacing several more strands of her already ruined hair as she complains, “ _I’m_ the one who’s payed to clean it”

Rebeka barks out a laugh and Cayetana would probably be more upset about it if she couldn’t feel Rebeka’s smile grazing her skin, fluttering and feather-light.

Finally, nosing the space between her breasts, Rebeka affirms, “I’ll help,” then to emphasize her next words, she gently squeezes Caye’s hips, thumbs framing the hollow of her pelvis, “later.”

It’s probably a bad omen, something about glass breaking and years of bad luck, but she’s pretty sure that those superstitions are only about mirrors and anyway this feels too good to stop now, no matter the irrefutable disaster she’s sure will follow it. Cayetana is nothing if not a glutton for short-sighted pleasure.

**vi.**

Cayetana had thought for the longest time that once she got to Las Encinas, once she escaped her neighbourhood and the public school across the road from her house— _with its weed-filled yard and the childish squabbles of teens who judged Cayetana for wanting more than their predestined futures_ , nothing could ever hurt her.

She would be rewarded with a blank slate, an opportunity to be whoever she wanted without the limits of who she was or who she’s meant to be. Once that thought had made her feel untouchable. Now though, now she simply felt a little exhausted and mostly unfulfilled. After all, being constantly remade— _into a new person with a new life and a new purpose_ —is the same thing as being constantly undone. And being seen by the people she’s always wanted praise from, for being someone she’s not, is the same thing as not being seen at all.

So maybe it’s not all bad that she’s gotten herself into this predicament. Maybe there’s something to be said about making terrible decisions if the person those decisions are made with doesn’t make her feel like she’s making a mistake. And so what if she doesn't yet realize the full extent of the consequences of her actions? She almost never does anyway. It’s not like this is particularly new. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest, I did not try very hard to comply to the season 2 timeline. I'm sorry but I feel no need to rewatch season 2 knowing that I'll ultimately come out disappointed by all the wasted potential the writers didn't utilize. I didn't expect to actually enjoy writing from Cayetana's perspective but she's super fun when she's actually given the chance to develop with a proper storyline, also I may have taken some creative liberties with her personality because canon is not respected in this house. 
> 
> Also whether or not you want Caye/Rebeka to be a thing in season 4, can we all just collectively agree that we'll go on strike if Rebe/Samuel is forced on us again?
> 
> Come join me on Tumblr! @UniversallyEcho, not abiding by prompts since 2020.
> 
> The very last section is heavily heavily influenced by an excerpt from the novel Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler, the original goes as followed: “I thought that once I got to this city nothing could ever catch up with me because I could remake my life daily. Now I was certain I would never learn. Being remade was the same thing as being constantly undone.”


End file.
